Heart's Plans
by Em.Celle
Summary: This is a six shot. It's not meant to be just light, but it isn't meant to be too dark either. I'm trying to blend the two. hopefully I don't wreck it up too bad.
1. Chapter 1

I loved my wife.

I know it sounds like I'm just defending myself but that's not it.

Honest.

I really loved the woman.

She was the woman I had vowed to love for life. In front of hundreds of people, most of them her family and friends because I don't have friends and my family wasn't invited to my wedding.

I don't think they would have come even if I'd extended the damn invite.

Anyway, they weren't missed.

I had Carmen next to me, the woman I loved, the woman I was going to have babies with, the woman I trusted with my heart, the woman who cheated on me with her bloody trainer.

The bloody trainer!

Who the fuck does that though?

Seriously; I trusted her to be half naked around the woman three days a week, that's how insanely trusting I was.

So for her to turn around and sleep with the darned woman in our bed, our matrimonial bed, it hurt.

It really did.

And I don't take well to being hurt.

So yeah, maybe setting her car on fire with all her clothes in it was a bit extreme but I don't regret it one bit.

I mean come on, the _trainer?!_

It makes you wonder how long they'd been flirting while they were all sweaty doing sit ups or whatever the fuck it is they were doing.

God, even thinking about it makes me feel like a stupid fool.

"An hour gone."

A voice I hardly ever hear although I've spent two hours of my day for the past two days with it's owner pulls me from my thoughts.

It turns out, setting someone's car on fire, even if that someone is your soon to be ex-wife, is illegal.

Who knew, right?

Also, setting someone's car ablaze, after batting the shit out of it, is a sign that you have anger issues.

Issues that need to be worked on in therapy or else you loose your well paying job.

Hence the reason I'm in therapy, sitting on a couch across from Dr. Lewis, trying my very best to ignore the ticking of the clock.

/

She's an odd one, Dr. Lewis.

Not odd looking, _certainly_ not odd looking.

Actually, as a woman who has appreciated women since the age of twelve when I noticed that I loved ogling at my babysitter's boobs, I think I can confidently say that Dr. Lewis is pretty darn fine.

But as fineness does not take away her oddness.

Take for example today; she's just seated there. Legs crossed, pen in hand, notebook on her lap, looking at me.

That's it, she's just looking at me. I think she's waiting for me to say something.

She's always waiting for me to say something.

The only time she ever talks it's to greet me when I arrive or tell me irrelevant shit that I don't care to hear.

Like how much time we have left.

Like seriously, I'm a full grown woman, I can read the time just fine.

I decide not to comment on her observation.

I made a promise to myself that i won't participate in this stupid forced therapy session.

So far I'm holding strong.

My eyes roam around the office, yesterday I didn't take the chance to.

There aren't that many things on Dr. Lewis's wall.

There's just a few framed certificates and a picture of a dog.

It's a cute dog.

"Saul."

She says with a small smile.

I look at her with a questioning look; I told you the woman is odd.

"The dog," she waves her hand carelessly towards the direction of the photo, "that's his name, Saul."

Her tone tells me she assumes I care.

Which I don't.

So I shrug.

And we're back to being silent.

She just sits there,reading from her notebook and writing stuff, probably about me, she'll probably send them to my boss.

Shit,maybe I should participate a bit.

"I had a dog once. Reuben."

"Why Reuben?"

Huh?

"Just because?" Even I'm not sure if I asked her a question or gave her an answer.

"Do you do a lot of things, just because?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It's just a question." She says softly.

It makes me angry,"are you calling me impulsive?"

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Impulsive."

"No."

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

"That's it." She says with that soft smile.

The watch on her wrist beeps, she shuts her note book, "times up."

Well, that second hour was fast.

/

"You're home."

Carmen says as soon as I walk into the house.

I roll my eyes and remove my coat.

I'm exhausted from work and therapy and the last thing I need is to get into an argument with her.

I really don't know why I haven't thrown her cheating ass out yet.

Sometimes I'm too fucking nice.

"I-" she wrings her fingers, "I made dinner."

"I already ate."

"Oh." She sounds dissapointed.

Too bad I don't give a shit.

"Yeah, oh." I make my way towards the guest bedroom.

"Bo, I'm sorry," I roll my eyes and walk on, I have heard that line lots of times "I didn't mean for it to happen."That makes me stop and turn around.

"Really, Carmen?"

"Bo-"

"No, what do you mean, you didn't mean for it to happen? Like it was an accident. Like you tripped and fell and landed face first on her vagina."

"Bo-"

"Fuck you, Carmen. Seriously, fuck you."

/

I bang the door to my room when I get there.

I absolutely hate it that Carmen can still make me this mad.

But I hate it even more than I have to sleep in the guest room because she and the home wrecker did the dirty in our matrimonial bed.

I think that hurt just as much as the fact that she cheated on me.

It was _our _bed. Carmen and I christened that thing for _days._

"Shit."

I punch the wall and wince immediately after.

I cant be here; I think rubbing my hurt knuckles.

I need to get out, to be somewhere that isn't here.

I need to be impulsive.


	2. And so it begins

_**I've never done first person, that's my excuse if this chapter sucks, which it might. The chapters to this story will be long cause there's so much to tell and so little chapters by which to tell it.I hope you don't mind. As always, thank you for reading and reviewing. **_

You know how I found out my wife was cheating on me? I _found _them;_ literally._ That's how little my wife cared if I knew she was fucking a woman I wrote a check to at the end of every fucking week behind my back.

One April afternoon, I was feeling, contemplative. Things hadn't been going great between Carmen and I and I'll be the first to say that it was partly –mostly- my fault.

Carmen and I have never been the head over heels, sickeningly in love, soul mates kinda people. Not even when we first began dating. Don't get me wrong, I _loved_ my wife. I loved her enough to marry her, to change my name for her, alter historical freaking records for the woman. But I also knew she wasn't my soul mate and honestly, I was more than okay with that.

She made me smile, I made her laugh with my sometimes not so awesome jokes, we had good sex and sometimes we even had good conversation. We were comfortable. And that was more than enough for me.

Until it wasn't.

I just, I _forgot_ what made Carmen so comfortable to be around. I mean, the sex, when we had it, was still good. Sometimes she did things that made me smile and on good days I would tell her little stories from work that made her laugh. Things were still relatively the same. But it suddenly wasn't enough for me anymore.

And I had no freaking idea why.

It was driving me crazy.

So that day in April I decided enough is enough.

I wanted my comfortable life back and I was going to make the first step to making that a reality that very evening.

I left work early, picked some Chinese food, which happens to be Carmen's favourite. And although I hate it, I bought a bottle of offensively expensive wine.

Seriously, I almost cried while buying it.

It was going to be a good night. We were going to have good food and drink good wine and talk and talk and have wonderful sex and we were going to lie in bed later and talk some more. Maybe have more sex after.

I was smiling when I opened our front door, my mind already trying to figure out where the hell we put the nice plates that Carmen's mother gave us as a wedding gift and that's when I heard the noises.

I've had sex with my wife enough times to know how her sex noises sound so I just knew, from the second I heard her moan, I just _fucking_ _knew _that she and someone else, who certainly wasn't me, were in our room.

Even as I walked there, with my bags still in hand, I hoped they weren't doing it in our bed.

Really, that's all that ran through my mind.

_Not our bed, please not on our bed._

But as shitty as my luck, and my wife are, I should have just known they'll be in our bed.

I just stood there, in front of the door that they'd left open, and saw some other woman on top of my wife. Carmen used to say she could feel me, that she was in tune with my presence or my scent or what the fuck ever. Yet there I was, some measly feet away from her, and she was just orgasming away.

Bitch.

I didn't know what to do. What the fuck do you even do in such a situation? So I turned around and left. I went to the park and drank the wine, straight from the bottle. There weren't that many people there. A few dog owners gave me the eye; I think they expected me to give a shit.

I stayed in the park for hours, ordering my mind not to think of the fact that my wife had cheated on me. Had been cheating on me for a while, probably. I stayed until my fingernails turned blue and my teeth started chattering, then I went home.

And until I informed her when I set her car ablaze; she never knew I knew.

I guess it's rather extreme, setting your wife's car and shit on fire, I want you to know that I know that. But like I've said before, I do _not_ respond well to being hurt. I didn't feel like forgiving her and I wasn't going to turn the other cheek. Be some meek idiot who just gets cheats on, divorces the filth and that's that. Can I make it any clearer? That shit does _not _work for me.

I _paid _the damn trainer. At the end of every week I wrote a nice neat check for her. (_Thank you so much for helping my wife commit adultery, here, have some of my money.) _

So no, I wasn't going to _just_ divorce her. No way in fucking hell. And if that earns me months or years or whatever in therapy; well, at least my therapist is good on the eyes.

...

I must say, without any hints of vanity, impulsive looks really good on me.

No lie.

Even Carmen, whose seated in front of the TV like a zombie when I come out of my room, does a double take when she sees my little red number.

"You're going out?" She tries to strike a conversation.

I roll my eyes and adjust my coat.

"I asked you a question, Bo."

"And I ignored you."

I say and pick my keys.

I briefly consider telling her not to wait up, but that would involve giving a shit if she does, which I don't.

So I just leave.

...

I usually go to a small club near my complex. It's small but nice and sophisticated and they always play good music there. The only bad thing about it is that pretty much everyone from my company also goes there and I'm in no mood to be around people who know me tonight.

I have decided that impulsive is synonymous to not giving one fuck about anything and my colleagues tend to give a lot of fucks about a lot of things. I don't need stories about me dancing naked on a table getting back to my boss.

Not that I'm planning on doing that but, just in case.

So I head out to a really shifty neighbourhood where I am sure no one from my company ever goes. I saw a cool looking bar there once and impulsive me would like to check it out. If it's boring, I can always leave.

...

It's boring.

I know that the second I step inside.

I think they're having a night for the old or something. Everyone around me looks over ninety. Some of them look at me and perk up and give me gumy smiles. One of them even winks. I almost vomit. I'm not even certain who between the two of us should feel more violated.

The only good thing about the whole place is the bar man who is obscenely hot. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm gay, and that another almost as hot man keeps blowing him kisses which he pretends to catch and put in his heart, I would have slept with him.

I'm not even joking right now.

Really, if he had a vagina and boobs, I'd even be willing to forget that I'm gay.

"Hi, do you know where I can get some smokes?" I ask just to make conversation. I haven't had a cigarette since someone in collage told me they can make your tits fall off.

"Do you mean smokes or _smokes?_" He asks with a raised eyebrow that makes him even hotter.

I think of what to say. "_Smokes." _I say, thinking that the first one is probably the really bad kind of cigarettes. The kind that can actually make your tits fall off.

"Just go through that door," he points to a door at the far end, "the very first guy you meet, tell him you need help."

I frown, "I need help?"

He nods, "you need help."

All this for a bloody cigarette?

I thank him anyway, pick my purse and leave.

...

The very first guy I meet is short. And has shifty eyes that don't really fit on his face and keep darting around like he's afraid of something. He's also dressed like some sort of Eskimo which makes him look even shorter.

I contemplate just going back into the bar, having a drink then calling it night. But then I don't want the hot barman to think I just asked him for assistance for the sake of asking, although that's what actually happened, so I clear my throat, "I need help."

"What sorta help?" Shifty asks.

Well uh, I really wasn't told what to say if he asks me that. Cigarettes must be a huge deal in this neighbourhood.

Before I can think of an answer, shifty is running, someone is running after him and someone else is yelling for me to get down.

All I can think is; what. the. fuck.

...

Well, in case you're yet to figure it out, I'm in jail.

Yes, jail.

Turns out _smokes_ is code for weed.

People should start offering classes for lingo. Really. I mean for fucks sake, I'm in jail for using the wrong freaking word!

Also, there's a woman here, her name is Jaymo. She keeps looking at me like I'm a disgusting doughnut that she isn't sure if she should eat or crush. I'm not very sure either.

I want my phone call.

"When I'm I getting my phone call?"

I ask the twenty something looking guy behind the desk.

He sighs; this isn't the first time I've asked him that.

I don't care for his sighing; I want my phone call. I've wanted this call from the second I realized they didn't believe the fact that I was just trying to buy a cigarette. I even crammed the number I'm going to call and if he keeps taking his sweet time to let me have my call I'll forget it and then I'll really be in deep shit.

He takes his time finding his keys then lets me out, "one call." He warns.

I dial the number slowly, I don't want to mess it up and call someone else.

"Hello," a sleepy voice answers after three rings.

It's sort of raspy and completely different from the one I'm used to. In a good way.

Suddenly, this doesn't seem like the brightest of ideas, "Uh, hi. Uh-it's Bo. Bo Dennis."

"Mrs Dennis," a beat where there's a bit of movement, "it's past midnight."

"Yeah. I know" I scratch the back of my neck, "But I kinda need your help with something."

There's a bit of silence then. "What is it?"

...

I tuck my hands in my pockets, not really knowing what to say.

She hasn't talked to me once since she got here and I'm too ashamed to say a thing.

But the silence is getting uncomfortable.

"Thanks for this." I say for what must be the millionth time.

I half expect her to ignore me like she has all the other time but this time answers, "its okay."

It's not though, I wouldn't be okay with someone I've only seen twice in my life, someone I'm paid to see, calling me past midnight to come bail her out of jail. "I'll pay you back, I swear."

"You already said that." She tucks some windblown hair behind her ears, a small smile on her face. It's kind of annoying and envy invoking how she can manage to look so put together, even at almost two in the morning.

"I know, I just- thanks."

She stops walking and turns to me,"why did you call me."

"Cause I didn't want to spend my weekend in jail." I answer easily.

"But, why _me?_"

I narrow my eyes a bit.

I want to tell her that it's because her card was the only one in my purse and that it was either I call her or my wife or my boss; the other two weren't really an option.

But instead I decide to tell her the truth, "I didn't have anyone else to call."

I wait for her to say something like, sorry or equally as stupid but instead she starts walking again, "do you feel like eating?"

She asks without looking at me.

I smile.

...

We are in a, can I set the scene? Let me set the scene yeah?

Okay.

We are in a small little thing that isn't really a dinner, but isn't a restaurant either. I don't know the name for it but it's completely cute.

We're seated at a widow table and Lauren has ordered pancakes and cereal for us. I'm honestly not even joking right now. I actually smiled when she ordered. She smiled back and said it's morning anyway.

There is something really charming about sitting here with Lauren, having pancakes at two and watching as she painstakingly pours the milk into her cereal. Like one wrong move will be the end of the world. If you saw the way I was smiling in that moment, you really would never have guessed that less than an hour ago I was in jail.

Even I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.

...

I hail a taxi for Lauren, she reminds me that I should get my car as soon as possible and before she leaves; she tells me "drugs are bad, m'kay?" I laugh then, because I feel happy to have had my very first after midnights pancakes and I'm happy that I had someone to have those pancakes with, and I'm happy to not be in jail, to not be Jaymo's bitch plus she says it in a funny way.

But layer, when I'm home, in my bed, I _really_ laugh because I never, not in a million years, ever thought I'd here Dr Lauren Lewis quote South Park.

...

I think my wife is seducing me.

Here's the thing. I woke up in a rather good mood this morning. I'm not sure why but I'm not really complaining. I'm not the kind to get hangovers and besides, I really didn't drink that much last night, so the only thing I needed to get my day started was a cup of coffee. Or maybe ten.

So there I was, innocently going for my coffee when who do I meet? Why, my half naked wife of course.

I must admit, she looked hot. And she made me feel violated in a confused way. Like I was seeing something I do not want to see but should want to. Like the way teenagers feel the very first time they watch porn.

"What's wrong with you?"

The sexy little smirk she had on falls, "what the fuck kinda question is that, Bo."

"A legit one. I mean seriously, have you become a nudist now? Is this walking around the house naked going to be a thing?"

"You can be such a bitch sometimes."

Well. Look who's talking.

She heads to her room.

I go ahead and fix myself a cup of coffee.

...

Because I don't want to think about Carmen, and because it's been on my mind since I woke up, I decide to text Lauren, I mean doctor Lewis, while having my coffee.

It's only the right thing to do, seeing as she bailed me out of jail and fed me and all.

Right.

Here we go.

_Good morning. I just wanted to say thank you for last night, again. It really meant a lot to me, what you did.-Bo Dennis._

There.

Short, precise and completely professional.

I wait five minutes for her text and just before it arrives I'm contemplating possible forms of suicide . Because really, texting her was probably the stupidest thing I've ever done. More stupid than going to jail. I could have told her on Monday. It would have made more sense that way.

I'm on method ten when her reply comes;

_Good morning. Like I said last night, it was no problem. Did you get your car already?"_

Oh look, we're conversing.

_Not yet, but I'm just about to head out and get it. Would you maybe like to go with me? _

Shit, shit, shit. Why did I-

_Scared?_

Uh, is this flirting? She's flirting right? Someone please inform me if she's flirting so I do not make an utter fool of myself.

_Me? Scared? Of course not. I just thought maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee on our way back. As a way of saying thank you._

Fuck. Now I'm trying to be charming. This is never good. I tend to overdo it when I'm trying to be charming. Mostly because at some point I'll notice that I'm _trying _to be charming, then I'll try to cover by trying to be even more charming and before you know it I'm laughing like a diabolical maniac and talking in jazz hands.

It's not pretty.

_Let me check my schedule then I'll get back to you._

There's a smiley face at the end.

That's definitely flirting. Right? I'm definitely flirting with my therapist.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Annon, if you're reading this. You really should consider having an account. Really. <strong>_


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